


Borealis

by Zhie



Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Auroras, Huan is the Sensible One, I get the feeling this Fingon is frenemies with Glorfindel..., M/M, Reminiscing, Rescue, Reunion Sex, Royalty, Snow, Talking Animals
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-25
Updated: 2019-12-25
Packaged: 2021-02-26 02:07:52
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,269
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21961849
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Zhie/pseuds/Zhie
Summary: Following his rebirth, Fingon considers answering the call for a hero to travel to Middle-earth and fight for the freedom of the Free Peoples.  He sets out on a journey to seek assistance from his cousin Finrod--and instead finds something he did not realize he was searching for.
Relationships: Fingon | Findekáno/Edrahil|Enedrion
Comments: 3
Kudos: 15
Collections: Tolkien Secret Santa 2019





	Borealis

**Author's Note:**

  * For [RaisingCaiin](https://archiveofourown.org/users/RaisingCaiin/gifts).



> The request as I received it: 
> 
> Dear @z-h-i-e,  
> Thanks for getting involved in Tolkien Secret Santa! You will be making a gift for @raisingcain-onceagain. They would like a fic as a gift and their favourite characters/ships are: Beleg, Turin, Maedhros, Fingon, Edrahil for characters, and Beleg/Turin, Maedhros/Fingon, Edrahil/Fingon for ships. In terms of preferences and prompts, they said: “Please no mpreg, modern!AUs, or noncon between main pairing please! Otherwise, I love established relationship fics, and a fluffy kind of take on winter would be amazing, with characters spending time together watching snowfall, reflecting on the year, something like that. But really, that’s kind of just a thought and whatever you make is sure to be amazing! And any rating is good!”. They are okay with NSFW for this exchange.
> 
> I latched onto Edrahil/Fingon immediately because I love writing some rarepairs when I can get them. A few days before the pieces were due, I realized that this might have been a typo, and it might have been intended to be Edrahil/Finrod. So this is one of two selections written for the exchange -- the other is 'Yes, No, and Maybe' (https://archiveofourown.org/works/21962437/chapters/52408495), which has Maedhros/Fingon, Beleg/Túrin, and Edrahil/Finrod vignettes. (And if Edrahil/Fingon was intended, then, yay! And if not, I hope this is still an enjoyable read!)

Being on the ice for years makes you hate winter. Well, maybe you would not hate winter, but you would certainly despise it for some time.

As for me, I hated it. I still hate it. I think everyone should hate it. I used to enjoy winter--when I visited my cousins in Formenos, I would see the Dancing Lights. “Eru is painting the heavens,” Maitimo would say to me. We would sit on the stone fences and drink hot cider from oversized mugs and tell bawdy jokes until our eyelids were heavy and our mugs were cold. Sometimes we only made it so far as the den just inside of the fortress before collapsing on a couch or a rug to sleep off our ill-advised late nights. 

Night was different, then. It was friendly and soothing, like a soft pillow, a warm blanket, and a backrub. I am not sure why so many things for me relate to touch, but they do, and so for my day was reclining in a field of flowers and having a honey bee buzz in your ear. But Formenos was frigid, and the air was like knives at times, but we managed it with laughter and song and sweet wine.

Then it all happened, and it happened so fast. We were angry--angry at the Valar, at ourselves, and each other. We were willing to die for freedom--and we were willing to kill for it, too. That was when he saw what I could do, my dear, sweet cousin. Maitimo had no intention of harming anyone (and perhaps, neither did his father--more to make a point to get those damned ships, truth be told). They went back and forth, each side wounding the other, each gaining and losing the upper hand. 

Then I arrived.

No one wants to talk about it, because everyone wants it to be the Fëanorians. Everyone wants to blame them, the whole lot. No, I do not say that because I think Fëanor is innocent, not at all. I say so because I know so. When I arrived, I had some inkling of what was afoot--but my lapse in judgement and the rush of...perhaps I best not say. A desire for the hunt, to test myself--oh, these words I speak...why was I never on trial? They tell me they fear me, some of them. Them, the Valar, and the Fallen One. He had a high price on my head, you know. Do you? Perhaps not. Perhaps that was forgotten, too. Just as many forgot I was the one who turned the tide. Fëanor and his sons were not slaying the Teleri, no, they were driving them from their ships, but not with any great speed. There was a slaughter; there was a kinslaying. The difference in history as it is told and as it happened is everyone enjoys hating Fëanor. They want him to be the source of distrust and hatred, though I am the one with blood on his hands.

Sorry, I realize, I never introduced myself to you. Findekáno of Tirion. Yes, they called me Fingon, and I allowed for it, if only because there were more of them than the rest of us, and I know to fight only battles I think I can win. No, I was not about to fight the Sindar--I only mean against the laws about language. They bastardized my name and I was forced to live with that, even as King--but maybe I deserved it.

Now the Helcaraxë, as I mentioned...all those years on the ice took a toll. I suppose you must be quite content here, with the seasons changing as they do, and the sun to shine down at times and warm you, but there was none of that on the ice. Only darkness and fear and death and despair. I was determined, though. I saw those ships burning after they took them across, and I knew in that moment that I had no love in my heart for my uncle. I, who did what his sons could not, who had secured the ships he so desired, I had been left behind. 

I had every intention of making it across the sea to confront my uncle. How cheated I felt when I learned of his death! And then, to discover my dear, beloved cousin was gone! Melkor had taken from me my revenge, and taken from me my companion, and I would not suffer both insults! 

But there was the ice to contend with first. It was immense and immeasurable, and cruel to us all. We lost more on the ice than had been slain on the shores. We were unaccustomed to it, and ill-prepared. Our horses all died either of starvation or broken legs within the first year; we had dogs with us, until hunger caused us to...maybe it best I leave that part out. It was rough, but we were determined. 

We were also proud, to a point. We made it a little more than halfway before the winds attacked us. They were fierce, and we were fewer and fewer each day. We began to rush, and it only takes one mistake to cause a reaction, and soon the ice was cracking all around us. My brother fell through first; my sister-in-law struggled to save her daughter, and lost her own life in the process. 

As for me, I was strong and determined, and had no spouse nor any children to support. That meant I carried as much gear and supplies as I could when we were moving, and it meant I plunged in before I knew what was happening. The water was frigid, and the ice was sharp. It moved in such ways that once beneath it was a challenge to find a break to hoist myself back up. Not that I could -- I was weighed down with weapons and tools and packs of whatever we could find that was useful. As I sank, I wondered why I held my breath--I felt there was no way for me to survive.

Then, a gurgling noise caught my attention. Not far away, someone had actually chosen to jump in, and he swam to me. Between the two of us, we loosened the burdens upon me, and then as I was running out of air, he aided me to the surface. We were both freezing, and our clothing was beginning to freeze to our bodies, so cold was the wind swirling about.

Camp was built as soon as we were far enough away. It was a time of great mourning for those we had lost, and yet, we had to think of those who were still alive. We were still worried about the ice, so my father banned all fires. This meant we had to forgo warmth in the usual way. I was still delirious from the cold and the icy water, and barely understood where I was until my rescuer had me in one of the small fur-lined tents. I just remembered his face, and the lights in the sky: blue, green, and pink. The colors were more vibrant on account of the missing light from the trees, and I remember thinking, at least if I died then, I would die watching something so beautiful in the arms of someone both brave and handsome. 

That was not to be, not that day. His actions were swift. He carefully removed our clothing, which was heavy and chilled. From some unknown place, he produced another thick fur, possibly from a bear, and covered us with it. I passed out, and woke up choking on my sobs while he held my shaking body. Whether grief or nightmare, I could not know. He soothed me with his words and his touch, and while it was innocent and meant to be healing, I cannot deny that it stirred something within me.

When next I awoke, he was gone. There was dry clothing in the tent for me. My clothing had been taken out to one of the few fires my father allowed and were drying. I never learned his name, nor did I see him again after that. I sought him out in every camp we ever made. I was too afraid to ask anyone; I assume he was taken by the depths below the ice. I stopped thinking about him when we reached the shores of Middle-earth.

Undoubtedly, you have heard what happened next--everyone did. Everyone knew; there was no way to hide it. I will never know quite what caused Melkor to put such a high bounty on me. Was it simply my defiance of him, to take back what (I thought) was mine? Or was it my decision to do so at any cost, even if it be the cost of my friend’s hand by my hand? Or could he have known the truth of the kinslaying by then?

Whatever the reason, I knew from that moment I would never see Valinor again. I counted myself among the slain, though I walked and lived and breathed for some years after. You see, it was obvious--one cannot win against a Vala. 

And yet, for some time, I still believed I had won. I was in Middle-earth, I had Maitimo at my side both figuratively and literally at times. All appeared well. At times, I even deceived myself into thinking we could overtake Melkor, though I honestly had no plan for it. Then I became king, and I thought--well, I do not quite know what I thought, though I knew damned well he was not going to be my queen, but I thought...something. The first year was as well as it could be, with me grieving for a fallen father. Then came the second year, and those words Maitimo spoke.

“You will need to produce an heir.”

And I know how I responded, even to this day. “I do not need to do anything--I am king.”

He let it go a few months, and then again it came up.

“There are many ladies in the kingdom who are--”

“Then you marry one of them,” I snapped at him.

And we locked gazes, and I glared at him, and he stared at me. And then he said:

“I already have a lover, Finno, and she wants to wait until after the war is over.”

I never expected that. I did not expect it to affect me as it did. I became wholly invested in the downfall of Melkor from that moment on. Several times, he wrote letters to try to convince me of his point of view, but I felt betrayed. Those feelings only worsened when I spoke to Makalaure and found out ‘have a lover’ could have been followed with ‘from Valinor’. Yes, he had a relationship, for long years, and I never noticed it. Idiocy was heaped upon betrayal. When he started rumors that Ereinion was my son so that it was accepted that Ereinion would be my heir, I never considered correcting him.

He had bright red hair, so you think someone would have questioned it at some point. I guess they decided not to wait until the war was over after all. But I digress again.

I know that the same reason I am here is the same reason you must be here: They have called for a champion. For some time now, I have felt without purpose. I welcome the chance to help finish what was started in Middle-earth. I know that it has been declared that whomever is to go must have experience, and I like to think a dragon, two balrogs, an impossible rescue, and all the rest counts for something, even if the two balrogs was disastrous in the end.

I suppose you have a better chance than I do. Loyal, through and through, except when your master truly lost all sense. They would likely want an upstanding member of the community instead of a kinslayer. Or perhaps that would make me expendable. I just wish we knew more about what they were looking for so that I could prepare for the interview.

\---

Fingon paused to lean against a tree and drink from his canteen. Then he held it out to the large wolfhound who had been traveling beside him and yet on his own. “Want some?”

Huan shook his large head. “You have been doing all of the talking.”

Fingon fitted the stopper back into the canteen and took a moment to stretch. There were rules for the kinslayers reborn in Valinor -- one such rule was not being allowed to own or ride a horse. It was the hardest of all of the edicts in the Revised Laws and Customs Among the Eldar for Fingon. Weapons were also limited, so at least he traveled light--a bow with exactly six arrows in his quiver and the largest hunting knife allowed by the rules were all he had with him. It was doubtful anyone would actually count the number of arrows, but the penalties were severe for noncompliance, and Fingon already dealt with having to live within a certain proximity to a district office due to a speech he had given at a Tarnin Austa festival that was deemed to be too progressive. “You could jump in any time you like.” And yet, Fingon continued to complain about this and that and the other thing until they arrived at the front door of the house of Finrod and Amarie. 

“Are you coming in...side?” Fingon looked about and frowned, for Huan was nowhere, and there was no trail. Before he could peek around the side of the house, the door opened. 

“Did you forget...some...thing...oh.”

Fingon straightened up, his eyes widening. “You,” was all he managed. Images flashed in his mind. The ice, the cold, the night in the tent. “I was… I was looking…” What was Fingon looking for again?

“Your cousin is away. He traveled to seek out the Valar who wish to send someone across the sea. He and his wife left a few hours ago.” The Noldo extended an arm and said softly, “I tried to convince him otherwise. I am sorry that I was not successful; perhaps you might still reach him to change his mind, if you have a swift mount.”

Fingon cringed. “I walked,” he stated simply, now embarrassed to voice his true reason for traveling this far. When he and Finrod has corresponded about the opportunity, it was agreed upon that Finrod would provide the means by which to travel once Fingon arrived. If Finrod intended to offer his services, Fingon felt he stood no chance. He let out a sigh. The thought of redemption had fueled him; his current state of mind was quite the opposite. Wearily, he asked, “Might I come in for a moment?” His heart thumped, not only for the distress awakened by knowing his cousin’s intentions, but for the unexpected reunion he found himself a part of now.

“Of course.” The door was opened wider, and Fingon stepped within. “Would you like something to eat? There is bread from luncheon, and some good cheese in the cold cupboard. I have a chowder simmering, and you are welcome to stay if you like. Finrod does not intend to be back for a few days, if at all, should he be chosen, and he did tell me that you would be welcome as long as you liked.”

“Did he say anything else about me?” asked Fingon.

The Noldo shook his head. “May I take your cloak and weapons?” he asked.

“I can see to them myself,” said Fingon, trying to mask the wash of disappointment as the door was closed.

“Please--it would be my pleasure,” insisted the other Elf, who held out his hands and happily took the bow and quiver as they were offered. “Would you like something to eat?”

Fingon licked his lips. He could smell the chowder, and while it seemed now a poor substitute for his current situation, the person offering it made it that much more tempting. “That would be very nice, thank you.”

There was a nod, and the Noldo disappeared around the corner. He returned a few minutes later with a tray. His steps were slow. Fingon, who had not felt certain whether to follow or not, had leaned against the door contemplating while he waited. “Do you always travel alone?” came the question as the tray was set on a small, low table near the door.

“Well, there was a dog with me, for a time, but yes. I tend to travel alone, when I do travel.” Fingon cleared his throat. “And you? You came alone as well?”

The Noldo nodded and closed the gap between them and licked his lips. “That I did.” 

There the two stood, a breath apart, neither moving. When they did, it was difficult to know who lunged for the other first, but Fingon would swear he was not the one with the way he was shoved against the door as an insistent mouth, moist and warm, parted his to gain entry. One hand was behind his neck; the other was on his hip before he could even think of his hands. He grabbed for support, then fought for dominance. 

The Noldo stepped back abruptly. “Your pardon. I--”

Fingon reached out and grabbed hold of the sash worn by the Noldo. He was jerked close once again and their exploration continued. “Your name,” Fingon suddenly said when they both paused for breath. “I beg for your pardon now--I never received your name all those years ago, and I am embarrassed to admit it now--”

“Why are you embarrassed? You were half-dead; we were hardly in a position to make proper intro--” The Noldo raised his head and sniffed the air. “Oh, dammit! The chowder!”

And that suddenly left Fingon standing in the hallway alone. This time, he followed. The acrid smell of burning dairy was easy to track, and Fingon found the other elf attempting to ladle chowder from one pot into another. “Here. Let me help,” offered Fingon. He found a trivet to place on the table beside the new pot for the hot one to sit upon. “It might be a loss as it is,” commented Fingon as he peered into the second pot. “It looks like the cream curdled.”

“I think I can salvage it. I can strain out the lumps.” A third pot was produced, and a sieve. 

Fingon sat down at the table to watch. Cooking had been more of a necessity than a pleasure for him, and there was little advice he could offer. However, when it was evident that the attempt was failing, for there was only a small puddle in the third pot after the chowder was cooling and congealing, he reached over and placed his hand on the Noldo’s arm. “You tried,” he said softly. “We still have the bread and cheese in the hallway.”

“Yes. We--oh, crap..” 

Fingon blinked as he was left by himself once again. He tilted his head and listened to a string of curses that erupted from the hallway and now followed the distressed strings of words to reach the place he had started. There, he found not only the other elf, but also, a pair of cats. One stood before the elf, apparently arguing with him, and the other sat cleaning his left paw. “I take it they found the cheese.”

“The cheese, the bread, the everything,” came the reply with a groan. 

“Cats are just assholes sometimes. I much prefer dogs.” Fingon sidestepped closer and placed a hand on the Noldo’s shoulder. “To be honest, I think I can manage if we skip the cheese and the chowder. That is, if you are of a mind to continue where we left off.”

The Noldo glared at the cats one last time before he turned his attention upon Fingon again. “Where we left off before the chowder burned, or where we left off the first time we met?”

“Either. Both. I should think they both lead to the same place.” 

“And that would be?” A smile played upon the Noldo’s lips.

There were times when Fingon could be perfectly blunt. This was one of those times. “Do you have a room here?”

The smile widened and Fingon was led by the hand out of the entryway and down another hall. They climbed a flight of stairs, and then another. At the end of the corridor, a door was ajar. The elf motioned with his hand, and Fingon went ahead and entered--but pulled the other elf along with him.

At first, it was hard to discern where anything was in the room, for the curtains heavy and the room was small. Fingon felt the elf move away from him, and he could barely make out his form moving across the room to the windows. “This is my favorite guest room when I am here,” was heard in the darkness. “Simply because of this.”

The curtains, which were anchored at the top and bottom, were pushed to the side. The northern windows were not vertical, but diagonal, for the room was on the corner of the house at the highest point, and the wall was sloped. Moonlight poured in--as did the beginnings of the light show in the dimming sky.

Fingon slowly approached the windows and looked out in awe. “I have not seen this since…” And for some time, Fingon stood and stared out the window. When snow began to fall, he turned back to see the other elf was lounging on the bed looking at him. “My apologies again,” said Fingon. “I was enjoying the view and I lost myself.”

“As was I,” said the elf. He patted the space beside him and Fingon approached. “Will you join me?”

Fingon crawled onto the bed and snuggled up with his companion. Just as he was about to be kissed again, Fingon blocked the advance with a single finger. “I still need to know your name,” he insisted.

The Noldo laughed. “Right. Sorry.” He cleared his throat and held out a hand. “I am Edrahil.”

“Findekáno.” As Fingon reached out to shake Edrahil’s hand, he left his lips unguarded and was the recipient of a deep kiss. “I must confess something to you,” said Fingon. “I came this way intent upon continuing on to see the Valar about the--” Fingon paused and frowned as he watched Edrahil nodding. “You knew of my plans?”

“Your cousin told me. I have a confession to make as well,” said Edrahil. “I was rather vague when you arrived. Your cousin did not go to offer his services. He went to support another. He did not want you to know that he did not intend to offer his support to you.”

“Why would he do that?” demanded Fingon, a little louder than he intended.

Edrahil calmed Fingon with another kiss. “He had a vision--”

“Oh, shit.” Fingon flopped backwards into the pillows.

“--of what would happen if you were chosen--”

“Of course he did,” grumbled Fingon.

“--and it was not good--”

“Ughhh…” Fingon grabbed a pillow and brought it over his face to muffle the news.

“--but he sought me out when he had another vision--”

Fingon pulled the pillow away. “A vision about me?”

“--of you, and I, and the borealis. And peace.”

Fingon looked out at the lights in the sky. “Go on,” he encouraged.

“He and I have not had contact in a long time. When I was first reborn, I came here now and again, but it seemed an odd relationship. It was difficult to find my place in his life; he did not need a servant nor a confidant, and so, I did not know how to best serve him. As it turned out, he did not need me, and we are very different. He likes his parties; he likes long discussions. He tells long stories between every song he plays, and after hearing the same stories over and over, I found there was little I could offer in return. I stopped coming here. As I understand it, you were reborn after that time.”

“New, but not improved, as my brother likes to say,” quipped Fingon. “No, I have not been back as long as many others. I, uhm…” Fingon edged up just a little on his elbows. “Námo and I had some creative differences.”

Edrahil chuckled. “Well. If I had known earlier you were back, I would have come looking for you. I might not be a Vala, but you are wanted by someone.”

Fingon lifted an arm and touched Edrahil’s cheek. “One more question before I become impatient again.”

“You think you are the impatient one?” Edrahil smiled. “Last question, then.”

“If not me, then, who?”

Edrahil’s brow furrowed. “Who...what? Oh… oh, who is Felagund supporting? There is someone from the old city of Gondolin named Glorfindel--”

“Oh, him? Oh...of course. Of course, him.” Fingon rolled his eyes. “He would literally kiss a Vala’s ass if he could get close enough. Of course they will pick him--Finrod is wasting his breath. All Glorfindel has to do is show up, floof his blond hair, smile and bow, say ‘at your service’, and they will pick him. He will be on a ship to Middle-earth before he can wipe the brown off his nose!”

“You certainly have some feelings about this. So...how can I focus your attention onto something more pleasurable?” asked Edrahil as he straddled Fingon and peered down at him, Edrahil’s hands upon Fingon’s chest.

Fingon looked up, seeing the colors in the sky through the windows as a background behind the beautiful man before him. Fingon reached up and ran his fingers through Edrahil’s hair. “This is a pretty good start,” he said.

Edrahil began to unfasten the buckles of Fingon’s jacket. “I once served a great king. I would gladly place myself in your service, your majesty.”

Fingon encircled Edrahil’s wrists with his fingers to still the other elf’s hands. “You think me a king? A king by accident, by name only. Who do you think ruled during my time on the throne? My father was dead; my brother was in hiding. It was me against the rest of the Fëanorians. Why do you think it was called the Union of Maedhros?” 

With a tilt of his head, Edrahil leaned in to steal a kiss, and then said, “You have certainly always had a royal air to me--even when you were drowning.”

At this revelation, Fingon laughed heartily and released his grip upon Edrahil. “By need and necessity. I have attempted to stay clear of the court of Tirion in this life and the previous one. I wish no titles between us.”

“No titles? None at all?” Edrahil worked on the final buckle and sat up a little so that the leather fell to the sides of Fingon’s body, a linen shirt the only barrier between Fingon’s chest and Edrahil’s hands, which boldly kneaded the fabric. “What would you say if I were to call you lover?”

Fingon surged up from the bed and locked lips with Edrahil. Discussion ceased; clothing was removed with haste, thrown to the floor when convenient and left on the bed if it missed its mark. Knelt before each other, they pressed together, hungry and certain, except for one thing.

Edrahil nipped along Fingon’s ear, nose tickled by the collection of braids that were woven and dangling. “How?” asked Edrahil, and he bucked twice against Fingon, who groaned and tilted his head back. Edrahil bent his head and suckled on Fingon’s throat, leaving a crimson welt upon his skin.

With his eyes open, Fingon took hold of Edrahil’s shoulders and pulled him down atop of his body. As they straightened out their legs and adjusted the position, Fingon grasped Edrahil’s face between his hands, fervently kissed him, and spoke against his lips: “I am no king. I am only a man with desires foreign to most people we know. You saved me all those years ago; my life is yours. I am yours. Do with me as you will.”

Deeper stirrings in Edrahil were made evident to both of them as his erection hardened against Fingon’s belly. “But, you do want this,” said Edrahil, seeking confirmation.

“I have longed for it, since that night on the ice.” Fingon spread his legs apart and bent his knees in invitation. “Have me. Please. Lover.”

A temporary tremor shook Edhrail, who then scrambled to retrieve a bottle from the nearby nightstand. Preparations were made; Fingon offered encouragement of words and gentle moans, always his body rocking slightly, welcoming the invasion with delirious sounds of satisfaction. At last, Edrahil readied himself, and when they were joined, Fingon clung to him with arms and legs, and for some time they communicated with the most primitive language--gasps of air and needy grunts, at pitches higher and lower than those who do not share intimacies. 

For the better part of their coupling, Fingon’s eyes were lidded, or his sight was blocked by someone’s hair (mostly his own--they would laugh about that later as they snuggled together and watched the snow fall). As they neared the climax, however, Edhrail brushed the rogue braids to the side and strained to kiss Fingon, thrusting deeper and harder with release imminent. With his eyes open, Fingon saw again the sight of Edrahil, surrounded by the backdrop of the dancing lights, and he held tightly to his lover as ecstasy washed over him and he felt at last complete.

\---

The dog was sitting on the stoop the next day. Fingon found him went he went outside of the house, intent upon providing something for the afternoon meal (he and Edhrahil opted to sleep in) outside of what Edrahil was preparing. “You came back,” commented Fingon as he hoisted up his quiver. 

“Who said I ever left?”

Fingon started to take a step in the direction of the forest, but turned on his heel, narrowing his eyes. “Were you sent to watch me?”

The wolfhound’s eyes twinkled, and Fingon swore he saw what constituted as a smile. “I am a guard-dog, not a watch-dog. You were very determined to have one final adventure in your life; taking up everyone else’s causes seems to be your flaw, Findekáno of Tirion. When was the last time you did something for yourself?”

Almost immediately, Fingon opened his mouth, determined to prove the dog wrong. His mind dug back into years of solitude, his time between worlds, the exile into Middle-earth, the Kinslaying, the Oaths, and everything he ever did for someone else. He shut it again. Unbidden tears stung his eyes. “Last night,” he finally answered as he wiped at his face with the back of his glove.

“Felt pretty good, right?”

Fingon nodded.

“Maybe we stay here a while, then. Let someone else go off to Middle-earth this time and save everyone.” Huan stood up and took a few steps to the right. “Come on. Rabbits are this way.”

Fingon followed after the hound. “So...are you my dog now?” he wondered when he fell in step with him.

Huan yawned, seemed to laugh, and answered with, “I am surely not going back to that bastard Celegorm. Now, hush. Rabbits ahead. Follow me!” 


End file.
